<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Telephone Game 17 by Aaymeirah, anonymous00255 (450495), booksnchocolate, covertius, TeoMoy, violentincest, Wishopenastar</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23559811">Telephone Game 17</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaymeirah/pseuds/Aaymeirah'>Aaymeirah</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/450495/pseuds/anonymous00255'>anonymous00255 (450495)</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksnchocolate/pseuds/booksnchocolate'>booksnchocolate</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/covertius/pseuds/covertius'>covertius</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeoMoy/pseuds/TeoMoy'>TeoMoy</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentincest/pseuds/violentincest'>violentincest</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wishopenastar/pseuds/Wishopenastar'>Wishopenastar</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Telephone Game Fic, each chapter has a different creator, from the captive prince discord, story takes off in new directions</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 18:27:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,476</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23559811</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaymeirah/pseuds/Aaymeirah, https://archiveofourown.org/users/450495/pseuds/anonymous00255, https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksnchocolate/pseuds/booksnchocolate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/covertius/pseuds/covertius, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeoMoy/pseuds/TeoMoy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentincest/pseuds/violentincest, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wishopenastar/pseuds/Wishopenastar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>From a telephone game in the captive prince discord:  </p><p>Ancel is, in his humble opinion, the best exotic dancer in this club - athletic, daring, and oh so desirable.  So he thinks he knows what it means when a dull-looking man in a boring business suit asks for a private show.  But Berenger has an unusual scheme to win his inheritance, and in the private room, he makes a proposition that even Ancel has never heard before.</p><p>What happens next?  The author would be as surprised as you, as their story was handed off to an artist who drew a picture based on what they had written - and then got picked up by a different writer who could only see the picture, and not what had been written.  Watch how the story twists and turns through 8 rounds and 8 creators, each only seeing the last chapter that came before them, with an hour to write or draw as much as they can before passing it on to the next person.  It's a game we like to call telephone - and here's the results.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ancel/Berenger (Captive Prince)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Captive Prince Discord: Telephone Collection</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Violentincest's Story (where we started)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Violentincest wrote this story to start the game.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The lights in the club shut off, and then a couple of seconds later two balls of fire appeared, twirling in the darkness. The lights were turned up a bit, but only enough that you could see the silhouette of the man on stage. He was in a bodysuit, his hair down, which had to be dangerous when you were twirling sticks of fire. But, he didn’t even seem concerned, as he threw one up in the air, and then another juggling them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man continued that for a few more minutes, then began tossing them under his legs, catching them on the other side. He was graceful in his movements, beautiful. The light from the fire illuminating his beautiful red hair that was possibly even brighter then the fire, and his captivating green eyes for only moments at a time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few more minutes, he threw them up in the air, higher than he had during any other part of the show, caught them, and spun around, hair flying out behind him. He put the sticks out, the lights turning off at the same time, and the room was engulfed in darkness again, the crowd cheering. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the lights turned back on, the same man was on the stage sans sticks. The body suit was gone, and he was in a pair of green booty shorts. there were two gold nipple clamps that led into a gold chain that went down his stomach and wrapped around his hips standing out against his pale skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A slow song started, to go against the fast upbeat pace of his last act. When he got to the pole, the red head grabbed onto it, and walked around it lazily, one step, two steps, three, and one more before spinning around on the pole until his ass touched the floor. He twisted his leg around the pole so that he no longer had a leg on both sides, and went right into a shoulder mount roll, into a holly drop, and then a figurehead cartwheel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Figuring that was enough floor tricks he went into a spinning climb, aerial invert, butterfly, extended butterfly then a flatline scorpio. Every move he did slow and methodically to match the tempo of the song, but he never lost his gracefulness, and it never looked like anything was a strain for him. He went into each move flawlessly, never a stutter between tricks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally he ended with a ball seat drop, and he could hear the whistles from the crowd. The red head moved away from the pole, gave a bow and went to walk off the stage. As he was crossing it he saw a man staring at him. There was nothing special about him. Nothing that would normally attract his attention, except he was not whistling, not cat calling him, he didn’t even have a smirk on his face. He just took a sip of his drink, face passive. He had never gotten a reaction like that to one of his acts before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man didn’t move all night. He watched every performer on the stage, his eyes sometimes following the dancers around off the stage. Whenever they finished a show they went around serving drinks to customers, offering them lap dances if they would pay. All of the staff were whispering about him. Wondering why he was there. After all, he didn’t seem interested in the show or the dancers at all. What was his game?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ancel,” one of the other dancers came over to the redhead who had been twirling fire on the stage earlier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ancel looked at her, grabbing a drink off the bar for one of the customers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That man...the one who has been sitting there all night just watching...he’s asked for a private show.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Private show could mean anything. Could mean they wanted a lap dance, but were too shy to do it in the middle of the club. Could mean they wanted to have a drink in the back and watch Ancel twirl around the pole just for them. Could mean a blow job or a quick fuck, depending on how much they offered to pay. After all, out of sight out of mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure.” he said, handing the woman the drink. “Bring this over to the guy at table 3 will you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She took the drink from him, and Ancel headed to the room. He stopped outside, and checked the mirror that was on the door. He ran his hands through his hair messing it up a bit, just enough to look sexy, but not enough to look like he wasn’t taking care of himself. Ancel then took his bottom lip into his mouth, and sucked on it for a moment before letting it go with a pop. There, now he looked ready.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He walked into the room and closed the door behind him, sauntering over to the couch where the man was sitting. Ancel sat down on the arm of the couch, and crossed one leg over the other slowly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What can I help you with big boy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man, now that he was close up, wasn’t bad looking. He had short black hair, and a nice face. It was the boring brown outfit that he had on that made him someone your eyes would pass over. It was ugly, and didn’t attract any attention or a second glance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s your name?” the man asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever you want it to be sweetie.” Ancel said with a purr.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man looked at Ancel unamused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My name’s Berenger.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a mouthful isn’t it. Do you have a shorter one? One that will be easier for me to call out later?” he asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After all, Ancel was pretty sure where this was headed. It was always the quiet ones you had to watch out for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man’s nose wrinkled a bit in distaste. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do have a proposition for you, but not what you might be thinking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Believe me sweetie. I’ve heard it all. And unless it involves skat, I’m pretty much open to anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man’s eyes widened in horror.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Has someone actually-” he cut himself off. “No...that’s not what I’m here for. Nothing...sexual.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now it was Ancel’s turn to be confused. “What is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My father just passed away. He was not a nice man, and never really liked me. But, he was old fashioned, and as his eldest son, I should be the one to inherit his company.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which is?” Ancel asked, wondering where this was all going.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Breeding horses. He put a clause his will. Unless I was married within a year of his death, his company would go to one of my other two brothers. They are even worse than my father. They have never wanted anything to do with the horses, and I know if one of them gets it, the company will be sold within a month.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t care about the rest of the inheritance, but I can’t lose the horses.” he said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m still not seeing the proposal here.” Ancel said, starting to get bored of the conversation. No money had even been offered yet, and he was wasting his time here when he could be out there convincing people to pay for lap dances.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want you to fake marry me.” he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ancel’s eyes widened. “What!? Me?! Why me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My father didn’t really think things through. He knew that I liked being alone, he thought I was strange for that. I pretended to be interested in women when he was around, but I’m not. He never put a clause in the will that it had to be a woman. It would make the ruse more believable if I actually found my partner attractive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He also never stated how long we had to stay married. I wanted to find someone, that after I inherited, could use money after the divorce happens. I will compensate you very well for all of the time, and inconvenience.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I also watched you all out there. You move like you know your worth. You hold your head high, walk straight and confident like you come from money. I need someone they believe is rich, someone from my social standing. That was also stipulated in the contract.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ancel interrupted him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t they figure out that you’re just getting married for the inheritance?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s why we’re starting now. I will bring you before my family. Introduce you as my boyfriend of a few months. We will continue dating, pretending to be in love, and then before the time expires, marry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This all sounded crazy, but the money that Ancel could make from doing this…..</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Berenger stood up. “You don’t have to decide now, but if you do decide to do it, meet me at this address at 4 tomorrow.” he said handing Ancel a business card.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ancel took it with his manicured fingers, looking at the card but not really reading it, his mind still whirring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Berenger walked towards the door, pausing with his hand on the doorknob.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would it be alright to know your name now?” he asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ancel looked up at him, green eyes meeting brown. “Ancel”. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. TeoMoy's Art</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>TeoMoy drew this based on Violentincest's story</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>[Image Description:  Ancel perches on the edge of a thick cushioned seat with his legs crossed.  He's wearing green short-shorts with straps across the thighs, <em>very</em> high platform heels, gold hoop earrings, and a black leather collar with two gold chains attached that cross over his chest.  He is sweeping his long red hair over his shoulder as a voice from out of frame says, "I want you to fake marry me."]</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Veretianblue's Story</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Veretianblue wrote this story based on TeoMoy's art</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The marriage might have been fake, but the emeralds weren’t. Or the rubies. Or the diamonds. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His hand hovered over the jewelry box. It stood as usual underneath the mirror and in its surface he saw reflected Berenger’s economical movements where he stood in the doorway. The faint light from the lamppost outside the window caught on his wedding band. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At the ceremony it had slid so naturally on Berenger’s ring finger that Ancel’s breath nearly caught. He’d raised his eyes to his new husband’s face, but it was as contained as ever before. Unaffected. Well, neither was Ancel. Surprised, yes. Cautious, yes. But he’d read the prenup contract carefully and everything was in order. The other terms, the unofficial ones, had been clearly set during their private conversation. The marriage would be entirely legal. Berenger would provide clothes and jewelry that would be Ancel’s to keep after their amicable divorce in a year or so. In exchange, Ancel would smile, and chatter, and hang off his arm, and generally distract people enough to make it seem like Berenger fit in during those social evenings where the real political talk took place. It was an excellent business opportunity from Ancel’s perspective.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We will have separate bedrooms, of course,” Berenger said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course,” Ancel replied steadily. He expected that to change after the contract was signed. Men were all the same, after all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Berenger never entered Ancel’s room without knocking, and his eyes never strayed from Ancel’s face when they talked. His fingers barely brushed Ancel’s nape when they fastened a new sparkling pendant around his neck. Ancel would have started thinking he was losing his touch, if not for the long looks he got at every party he accompanied Berenger to. Those he knew how to work with. And even if the locations were more glamorous than in Varenne, the people so much wealthier, the power plays more aggressive, Ancel was entirely capable of navigating them. In fact, it gave him a thrill to see how well he could handle the gatherings in Arles, learning which rumours to dismiss, which rumours to spread, whose ears to whisper into… It didn’t take all that long to learn how to work with Berenger to make them seem the devoted couple, with lingering hand touches and quick, casual pecks throughout the evening. He learned when to push Berenger forward, and Berenger learned when to hold Ancel back, reminding him how high the stakes were. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ancel hadn’t realized exactly how high they were until this evening. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Berenger finished loading the gun and said, “Don’t forget to take your passport. Go through the back door, you’ll have enough time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ancel didn’t doubt his words. The men coming after them were more interested in bringing Berenger down, not him, so his path to getting out of this unharmed was clear. He gripped the jewelry box tightly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Go, Ancel.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He went. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Booksnchocolate's Story</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Booksnchocolate wrote this story based on Veretianblue's story</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>We try to keep a pattern of writer-artist-writer-artist, but sometimes the numbers of writers and artists who sign up for a game are not even enough to keep the pattern going.  When two writers go back-to-back, the second writer chooses whether to continue the previous story, or write a new story inspired by the previous one, with different details but similar plot points, theme, or tone.  This is what booksnchocolate chose to create from veretianblue's inspiration.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He hadn’t meant to get caught. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go through the back door,” Berenger had said. “You’ll have enough time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that was fine. Ancel was good at his job, and his job was looking out for number one. He’d gripped his jewelry box full of all the precious gems that had glittered at his wrists, throat, ears during their sham marriage, and he’d gone. Out the room, down the hallway, footsteps soft on the plush carpet of the stairs. Through the kitchen with its immaculate counters and untouched stainless steel appliances sparkling like the centrefold of a magazine. A quick stop at the hall closet to grab his coat, the one he’d had tailor-made by Charls with his passport in the breast pocket and five hundred dollars carefully sewn into the inner lining. He shoved the jewelry box deep into an inner pocket. It would ruin the silhouette, but for once, he had other things to worry about. He thought about the surety of Berenger’s hands loading the gun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, he was at the back door. A quick scan of the surroundings, searching for anything out of place. No shadows crossed the windows; no voices broke the evening’s silence. Ancel laid his hand on the doorknob. His car - another gift from Berenger - was parked in the driveway. The distance between him and safety - freedom - was a measly ten steps, out the door, down the three stairs to the gravel drive, behind the driver’s seat and off into the night. Berenger would catch up with him or he wouldn’t. Ancel told himself he didn’t mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sound of booted feet hitting carpet drew him back to earth. Ancel froze, heart jack-rabbiting in his chest. He could hear the murmur of a voice - voices, plural. Men were heading for the stairs; they must have gotten in through a window. Ancel gripped the doorknob tighter, willing his breathing steady. Berenger was upstairs. Berenger could handle this. Ancel tried hard to believe it, to force down the thread of anxiety gnawing at his stomach. He needed to move, now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a split-second of hesitation but it was enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A rough hand grabbed his arm and Ancel gasped as he was yanked back, stumbling to his knees. A figure in black, </span>
  <em>
    <span>ugly </span>
  </em>
  <span>tactical gear snarled at him. Ancel barely registered the words over the pounding of his heart but the gun pointed directly at him conveyed the message well enough. He raised his hands in supplication, fear taking over his mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What - what do you want from me?” His voice was a thready, thin thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man didn’t answer, just narrowed his eyes like Ancel somehow wasn’t what he was hoping for, which, </span>
  <em>
    <span>rude</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “You’re the husband.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m -” Ancel choked as the man reached down and grabbed him by the throat, cutting off his words. He fought and snarled as he was dragged back into the house, down the stairs and into the basement. Something ugly and furious rose in him as he realized how well the intruders knew the layout of Berenger’s - their - home. He gasped and struggled but the man was almost preternaturally strong and only squeezed harder on his throat, making Ancel see stars. It was almost a relief when he was thrown to the ground. His knees might be bruised but at least he could breathe again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The respite didn’t last long. Hands were on him again, dragging him upright onto a chair and lashing his wrists together with - “A fucking ziptie?” Ancel croaked. “Did you forget your supplies?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His world blacked out in pain as a fist connected solidly with his cheek. “Shut up,” the man growled. “You’re not here to talk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instinct took over. Years of self-preservation. Ancel let his legs fall open slightly. “No,” he breathed, looking up through his lashes. “What am I here for, then?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His captor remained unimpressed. “You’re bait.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ice flooded Ancel’s veins again, though he did his best to keep his voice level. “It won’t work.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The crack of a gunshot echoed faintly from the floor above them and Ancel tried not to flinch. Muffled shouting and the thud of booted feet filtered down to him. A man screamed once and was silent. Ancel’s mouth was suddenly very dry. He strained against the ziptie, ignoring the pain in his wrists. His legs were free. He could run, hobbled, with the chair - </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The press of cold metal to his temple made Ancel freeze. “Don’t try anything,” the man growled. His eyes were fixed on the basement stairs. A metallic crash echoed from above. Ancel bit the inside of his cheek hard, willing himself not to panic. Berenger would be fine. It sounded feeble even to his own mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another scream and a burst of gunfire. Something landed on the stairs; Ancel couldn’t restrain a gasp as he recognized Berenger’s brown jacket, now torn and bloodstained. Nausea rose in him like a wave, and a blazing rage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he managed. How dare they - how dare they take Berenger from him - </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man chuckled, a low growling sound. The gun didn’t move from Ancel’s head. “Tough luck. With him gone, you’re usel-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cut off with a choked gurgle, and Ancel felt a warm spray on the back of his head - blood. Fuck. Fuck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know how long that’s going to take to get out of my hair?” Ancel demanded, voice weak and torn with relief as Berenger appeared on the stairs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How many were with you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just the one,” Ancel said, ignoring how his voice wavered. Berenger’s shirt was torn and he was bleeding sluggishly from a gash in his upper arm, but his eyes were hard and his steps were steady as he crossed the room to where Ancel was tied. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They hurt you.” Berenger eyed the bruise on his cheek darkly. Warmth rose in Ancel’s chest; he tamped it down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you alright?” he asked as Berenger made short work of the ziptie binding his hands and helped him to his feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine,” Berenger said, as if getting shot at and stabbed was par for the course. Maybe for him, it was. “We’ve got to go before they send more men. Do you still have your passport?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At Ancel’s nod, he started for the stairs, one hand under Ancel’s elbow to guide him as if Ancel was the one needing support. He nudged the shredded remains of his jacket with his toe and sighed. “There’s no salvaging that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ancel sneered. “Good. I hate that fucking jacket.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Itakoaya's Art</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Itakoaya drew this based on Booksnchocolate's story</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>[Image Description:  Ancel is fleeing through what seems to be an underground space, looking back over his shoulder at a staircase that a shadowy figure is descending.  An unseen person's hand is reaching from beyond the frame to grab his shoulder.  He is wearing a loose, cape-like green coat with arm slits for sleeves, the pockets of which overflow with gold and jewelry.]</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Wishopenastar's Story</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Wishopenastar wrote this based on Itakoaya's art</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He could only take a second to admire the jewels on his body before he had to run. Ancel felt heavy laden as he was with all the gems. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he ran on, the dungeons where the Regent kept his coffers were a dank miserable place—not somewhere Ancel would keep jewels. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But they were easy to steal even with all the security. Getting out was the problem, Ancel thought as the soldiers behind him increased in number.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Peacock are you there?’ A voice came from further down the dungeon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Don't call me that miserable moniker.’ Ancel whispered, his voice carrying through the corridors, he spared a thought to hate peacocks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The jewels weighed heavy on his body but his conscience was as light as it could be. His husband was waiting for him as he reached the rendezvous, soldiers hot in pursuit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lord Berenger was on his first heist and </span>
  <em>
    <span>he makes a fine figure even in this dark clothing</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Ancel thought as he clasped his husband’s perpetually warm hand. Berenger pulled him up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The ground was a breath of fresh air, it was safety and relief at a job well done as Ancel watched the cover being shut again and the soldiers trapped again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a loud ruckus as the soldiers finally managed to get the cover open and sound the alarm as Ancel had known would happen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The distraction should give Laurent enough time to have stolen whatever documents he needed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Berenger helped him onto the horse that Prince Laurent had sent over. Ancel’s lover was a more proficient rider than any of the soldiers and they lost their pursuers in the forest adjacent to the castle even as they evaded the patrols. The castle was in chaos judging from the bright lights that were visible even through the distance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Berenger snorted. It could be Ancel’s hands so tight around his waist or something else and Ancel had a pretty good guess. They rode to the safehouse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I don't know how Laurent manages to hold up the entire rebellion as he does.’ Berenger said as he read aloud the letter from the Prince that was kept sealed on his desk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Sheer determination.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Well your usual partners were absent, How was I?’ His voice was serious as it ever was but Ancel could detect the humor in it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘For a straight laced citizen who suffers a vicious redhead bitchy wife in the day, you are splendid indeed.’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Stop flirting with me, I am married and I quite happen to like Mrs. Berenger indeed. Besides if I'm the prime example of a straight laced citizen I don't know what the land is coming to.’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I love your wife as well but as soon as the fucking Regent is disposed of, we are getting rid of my lovely alibi.’ Ancel said moving to the desk his lord sat at.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘And then?’ Berenger asked as he shivered from the kiss Ancel placed on his shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘You mourn for a few days and then publically court Ancel, former pet and the rebellion hero.’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘If all goes well.’ Berenger’s voice was unwavering, he was not often confident but this time he was.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ancel looked out at the streets from the window, dawn had broken in the hours he had spent underground and the market places bustled with people who shouted their fares and goods. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ancel thought of everything that would happen at the end of the rebellion and smiled the smile of someone who knew good times were coming.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Aaymeirah's Art</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Aaymeirah drew this based on Wishopenastar's story</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>[Image Description:  Featureless white background.  Ancel and Berenger are leaning against opposite sides of the frame, as if leaning against unseen walls, with their bodies in profile facing each other and their faces 3/4 turned towards the viewer.  Ancel is wearing a green dress with a thigh-high slit and Berenger has his hand on the hilt of a sword.  Both have one knee propped up with one foot resting against their side of the frame.  The poses and background are in the style of the movie poster for <em>Mr. &amp; Mrs. Smith.  </em>In between them, "Mr &amp; Mrs Berenger" has been written in title font over the plain white background, but a red X has been drawn through the "s" in "Mrs," making the title <em>Mr &amp; Mr Berenger.</em>]</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Covertius's Story</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Covertius wrote this story based on Aaymeirah's art</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Berenger checks his sights as he walks into the kitchen. Left clear, right clear - potential hiding spot behind the cabinets, in the corner where they ended to make space for the doorway into the basement - keep an eye on that, and on the door itself, and on the door to the living room. It’s one too many eyes. He shouldn’t have to do this. This place, his home, </span>
  <em>
    <span>their</span>
  </em>
  <span> home - it’s meant to be a place of refuge, of safety. His escape from the world outside and the danger and the ugliness his job brought with it. He’d known, always, that his work could invade it, but he’d imagined it following him home. His counterpart from a rival agency tracking him down, seeing through the layers of falsehood and misdirection that separated his real identity from his cover - or maybe being compromised in a way that made him too much of a risk, and coming home to find his own coworkers waiting to stage a household accident that would burn him cleanly from their ranks. Not like this. Never this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He has his gun drawn as he moves towards the living room, but the safety on and pointed down. Even after everything, after what he’s learned today, he’s not going to aim at his husband. Never that, not until he’s sure - </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, honey,” comes a singsong voice from further in the house, “You got some ‘splainin’ to do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s the voice he fell in love with all those years ago, plopping down beside him at a bar in a foreign country where he’d been sent to assassinate three strategically chosen top officials undercover as an ordinary tourist. Ancel had picked him out, sidled up to him, asked for a drink and picked his pocket, seemed almost more amused than upset to be caught with Berenger’s wallet in his hands, laughing and saying that a boy has to do something to eat when his traveling companions abandon him east of nowhere. Berenger, deciding duped traveler was as good a cover as any, had made sure that Ancel had something to eat and somewhere to sleep and they had flown back home together, with Berenger already wrapped around his finger despite himself. But that must have been cover, then, too, the beautiful young thing alone and in need of aid as much a fiction as Berenger’s dull businessman.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The memory pulls at him, bringing a host of emotion - realization, grief, affection, anger - to his next words. “Isn’t that supposed to be my line?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That had been their joke. The fiery redhead and the dependable spouse, Lucy and Ricky.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A spattering of gunfire is his answer, and Berenger leaps to the floor as a row of slugs makes a line above their granite countertop, shattering tiles and knocking down hanging pans as it moves towards him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You lied to me,” says the voice he’s always known as Ancel, but who he now knows is Firedancer, the assassin who’s been sniping targets out from his agency’s nose for years, never caught and never traced, so good that they said he could make bullets dance. In his voice is all the rage and disbelief Berenger now feels.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You lied to me,” Berenger shoots back, spinning to the doorway and ducking in get some return fire of his own. Ancel cartwheels away from them, making a moving target, and he hits their lamp, the coffee table, that damned Ikea bookshelf he spent a whole weekend trying to assemble, and their wedding picture. He doesn’t hit Ancel.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ancel pops up from behind the couch with a new weapon and shoots constantly as he runs at the door, making Berenger take cover behind the island. He’s still making plans for a counterattack when Ancel leaps over it, making a graceful one-armed handstand for a moment as he drops the empty gun and draws a carving knife from the block, landing on Berenger before he can react. The knife flashes towards his neck, but Firedancer can’t use his acrobatics in combat this close, and Berenger, the Workhorse, has the advantage in this kind of hand to hand. He has Ancel pinned beneath him soon, both wrists clasped in one hand beneath his chin as he raises the gun to Ancel’s temple. He hasn’t dropped the knife.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“All your shots missed,” Ancel says, grunting as he tries to throw off Berenger’s grip, “You missed me on purpose.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Berenger doesn’t deny it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know why.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s a lie.” His emerald green eyes are glaring, no less beautiful for being filled with hate. “Who I am to you is a lie. Our whole life has been a lie.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Has it?” He’d thought he knew what Ancel looked like angry, but there’s something totally unfamiliar in the fury of the man beneath him now, now that he’s no longer trying to hide how dangerous he is. “Then why did you miss me too?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t.” Ancel’s eyes narrow. “If you don’t pull that trigger now, I’m going to kill you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then do it,” Berenger drops the gun. “Because I can’t kill you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He lets go of Ancel’s hands, and his husband immediately raises the knife. Time spins out as the blade rests harmlessly against his throat. One little push …</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then the hand with the weapon shifts, goes for his tie, and Ancel is pulling him down and kissing him like he never has before. Berenger fists his hands in Ancel’s hair, pulls the way he knows he likes, is rewarded with a groan and a bite on his lower lip that Ancel gentles with a suck. They’re going to fuck, he realizes, almost disbelievingly, right here on their kitchen floor, with the tiles digging into his knees and his elbow cramped by the kitchen island. They’ve never done that before, not even during their honeymoon, when they were so hot for each other they could barely stand it. Ancel is a wild thing underneath him and Berenger feels himself growing fiercer. He doesn’t know this man at all. His husband, his partner, the person he once thought he knew better than anyone else in the world, loved more than anyone else in the world, is a complete stranger to him - </span>
  <em>
    <span>and suddenly that’s the most exciting thought he’s ever had.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aaand, cut,” the director yells from offset. “Everyone break while we reset for take 2, then I want some close-up shots of the kiss.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Berenger shakes himself out of character, coming back to himself after inhabiting the role. He climbs to his feet and offers Ancel a hand up, which his costar holds for a little too long.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, that was fun,” Ancel says brightly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Berenger nods, discomforted. That kiss, it hadn’t really been a stage kiss, not towards the end. His lips still tingle with the feel of Ancel’s tongue. That’s always a problem with working Method, getting too deep into character, but it’s never happened to him like this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We should practice that some more,” Ancele continues, a glint in his eyes, “Why don’t you come to my trailer for - private rehearsals.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, thank you.” He knows that Ancel makes a habit of this - sleeping with producers, directors, more famous costars. It’s one of the sickest things about the industry, the expectation that anyone lower down will go along to get along, and something that hasn’t changed as much as it should after Me Too. Using it to your advantage is one reaction to being trapped in that system, and not the worst one. He wonders when he’ll finally manage to act professional enough for Ancel to understand that he doesn’t expect that of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ancel’s eyes narrow. “You’re still made about that stunt on Fallon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s not. He knows that Ancel’s pre-Hollywood career as an exotic dancer is something that could keep him down as he climbs ranks. Unlike Berenger, this is Ancel’s first major role, and he doesn’t have the stage to fall back on if his movie career doesn’t pan out. He understands that throwing it in everyone’s face, using it and referencing it and making jokes about it himself, is a way of seizing control so that others can’t use it to hurt him. Still - </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You should really get someone’s permission before you give them a lap dance in public.” On national television, no less.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ancel leans closer. “I could give you one in private, to make up for it. As I’m sure you remember, I’m very good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No thank you,” Berenger says again, and Ancel shrugs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Berenger’s proud to be a part of this production, to have signed on with a small indie studio who’s main thrust right now is remaking blockbusters with queer casting and minimal script changes to show what movies would look like if more people were represented. He believes in what they’re doing, and he’s willing to work for less than his usual salary to help them try. He’s glad to be here.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, he realizes as he watches Ancel walk away, red hair shining in the sun and hips swaying seductively, that this is going to be a very long shoot.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>